


Worth Its Weight

by philalethia



Series: All the Rest 'Verse [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Daddy Kink, Daddy Sherlock, Gift Giving, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Service Domination, Sex Toys, Unsafe Sex, sorta Sugar Daddy Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-24 13:22:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9734531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philalethia/pseuds/philalethia
Summary: “Remember,” John said, “when we talked about you not buying me extravagant things?”Basically: a little bit of Valentine's Day daddy kink.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So it was noon on Valentine's Day, and I was thinking about Daddy Sherlock (which I do embarrassingly often, not gonna lie). A few hours later, and here we are! 
> 
> Happy Valentine's Day! <3

“Remember,” John said, “when we talked about you not buying me extravagant things?”

“Vividly,” said Sherlock, in the tone that meant anything John had to say was infinitely less interesting than whatever he thought John should be saying. “So vividly, in fact, I’m reliving the conversation right now. Open it.”

John turned the box in his hands, peering at the picture on the front. “This looks like gold, Sherlock.”

“Does it? I hadn’t noticed. Open it.”

John flipped the box over again, scanned the description on the back, and then held it up so that Sherlock could watch as his finger circled the words _18K gold plate_.

Rather than looking sheepish, as he damn well should have done, Sherlock seemed proud. His lips twitched as though he wanted to grin. The arrogant cock. He was practically vibrating where he stood, staring down at John on the sofa who again spun the box around to examine the picture.

A gold-plated prostate massager. Fucking hell.

John was very aware he should’ve been more bothered by it than he was. Clearly, Sherlock was rubbing off on him— _in more ways than one_ , John thought with a smirk.

A smirk that Sherlock saw, of course, and that made him preen even more. He puffed up his chest, cocked his head, and beamed down at John. His perfect white teeth on display, his pink plump lips stretched wide. God, John adored him, despite how bloody infuriating he could be.

“How much did this cost?” John asked, although he didn’t really want to know. Better he just reminded himself that Sherlock’s clients in the last several months had included a fair number of wealthy ones and that—although he would happily take cases for free, provided they were interesting enough—he had no compunction about charging the people who could afford it.

Sherlock shrugged. “Can’t recall. Shall _I_ open it?”

John handed it over. “Might as well. Looks like I’ll be needing a shower sooner rather than later.”

*

“And to think I just bought you sweets,” John said. He meant to grumble it, but with two slick fingers inside himself, he suspected he couldn’t sound disgruntled no matter how hard he tried.

Especially with Sherlock looking at him like he was: gaze sweeping over every inch of John’s body like he couldn’t decide which bit he liked most. He didn’t even linger over the obvious places, like John might’ve done if their positions had been reversed. John’s bicep was treated to the same consideration as his face, his collarbone given the same amount of scrutiny as his open thighs and his fingers hooked in his arsehole.

Curious, John glanced down and watched a drop of water—a remnant of his shower, he supposed—trickle from his shoulder into his collarbone. Sherlock lunged forwards and licked it away. John shuddered at the warm, wet touch.

When Sherlock drew back, his eyes were dark and hooded. They did another thorough sweep of John’s body before, finally, lingering on his cock. John decided to give him a little show. It wasn’t the most comfortable position, lying on his side facing Sherlock with his top leg bent and his arm wound around his back, fucking himself from behind. But it was the one Sherlock liked most; he liked lying beside John, his chin propped up on one arm, and watching. So John stretched and twisted uncomfortably so that he could push his fingers deeper, curling them, until his half-hard cock gave a little twitch.

Sherlock bit his lip and surged up to sitting, leaning closer, gripping John’s bent leg. John let him lift it slightly, fighting a blush and the urge to stop as Sherlock watched him fuck himself. John felt fingers on his arse, warm but as startling as if they’d been ice-cold. They dug into the flesh and spread his cheeks even more. John probably was blushing, then, trying not to think about Sherlock inspecting his arsehole while John kept fingering it like a well-behaved whore.

Sherlock let go and pulled back with a sound somewhere between a growl and a scoff. “You’re not slick enough,” he said, reaching for the bottle of lubricant. “Did you see the toy? It doesn’t taper like a plug and it’s thickest at the tip. You’re going to hurt yourself.”

It was so ridiculous that John snorted. “I think I’d know if it hurt, thanks.”

But Sherlock ignored him, popping open the lube and drizzling enough to form a small lake in his palm, and, well, if Sherlock wanted to take over—with his stupidly long fingers and strong, wiry arms—John certainly wasn’t going to complain. He slipped his own fingers out with a grunt and hiked up his leg, eagerly welcoming Sherlock’s hand as it shifted into position, dribbling lube on John’s thigh and probably the bedsheets as well.

John moaned, soft and breathy, as two fingers squelched into his hole. It wasn’t always better when Sherlock did it—he might’ve been eerily perceptive about what John needed and when and how, but he wasn’t actually a mind reader, as much as he probably wished he were—but in this position when Sherlock could go deeper and harder and John could simply lie here and let him… oh, yes, it was better. John’s reticent prick finally started to thicken.

“All right?” Sherlock said. His tone was smug. He knew exactly what he was doing to John, that John had been only somewhat in the mood until now.

But looking at him, with his bottom lip red from where he’d bitten it and his cheeks flushed, his curls messy, and his eyes bright, John couldn’t find it in himself to be anything but pleased. Pleased and awed and adoring.

In the shower, he’d decided to hold off on saying it. To make Sherlock long for it and crave it and become half-mad with the desire to hear that he was wanted, trusted, needed, the way he had at the very, very beginning. But now John licked his lips and said, gruffly, “Yes, Daddy.”

Sherlock’s haughty expression softened, his features seeming to melt until he just looked utterly, hopelessly besotted. With his free hand, he guided John’s head close enough that their noses could almost touch and then he kissed John’s forehead, his hairline, his cheek. John smelt chocolate and wondered if Sherlock had eaten some of his sweets while John had been in the shower.

Sherlock skimmed his hand through John’s hair to his neck, and gripped his nape as the fingers in John’s arse, so gentle until now, thrust harshly once, then twice more, startling John into grasping Sherlock’s shoulder and groaning “Uh!” Then Sherlock slipped his fingers out and John’s groan turned long and loud in protest.

“Shh.” Sherlock rolled away and reached for the gold prostate massager, which he held out to John. “I think you can take it now. Yes?”

Probably. John certainly felt open, and wet, and ready. He wanted it. John accepted the massager, which was heavy and cool to the touch.

“It’s cold,” he said, curling his lip.

Immediately, Sherlock snatched it back and, before John could say any more, popped the tip into his own mouth. He eased it deeper, eyes fluttering, until John could _see_ him swallowing around it.

John’s mouth went dry, and he had to reach behind and shove his fingers back into his arse. Just a bit, just to keep himself loose. He couldn’t watch Sherlock sucking a toy without touching himself at least a little, and he didn’t trust himself to start stroking his dick.

“Do you have any idea how gorgeous you look with your mouth full?” John asked. Sherlock winked and tried to smile, which made him gag, his shoulders heaving. And fuck if, in John’s twisted little mind, that wasn’t hot too, even if it did probably undo some of Sherlock’s efforts to clean the toy before they used it.

When Sherlock removed the toy, the gold was dripping with saliva, enough that it was probably slick enough John could’ve taken it just like that, but Sherlock coated it with lube anyway. Then he gently manoeuvred John onto his back— _thank Christ for that_ , John thought, flexing the stiff arm he’d been lying on—and climbed between John’s legs.

“However I look,” Sherlock said, pressing the massager to John’s hole and swivelling it in a way that made John lift his hips, eager for it, “I guarantee it’s nowhere near the sheer perfection of you with your arse full.” With a bracing breath like it was his own prick in his hand, he pushed the tip inside.

John hissed. Sherlock was right; it was big, especially for an anal toy, and although the tip was rounded, there wasn’t a lot to ease him into the stretch before he reached the thickest part. The abundance of lube helped. Any more friction and it would’ve burned like hell, but instead it slid in with minimal resistance, more discomfort than outright pain.

Sherlock paused, and John looked at him. His free hand rested on the bed beside John’s right hip, supporting his weight and allowing him to lean over John. He was panting, as though he’d done something far more strenuous than simply putting part of a toy up John’s bottom, and his forehead shone with tiny beads of sweat. His gaze was fixed on John’s face, and when John licked his lips and swallowed, Sherlock followed the movement with his eyes—from his mouth to his throat and then down his sternum, his belly, to his cock, which was flagging but not soft.

 _I’m so in love with you_ , John thought. _I don’t know how I lived before I had you._ But they didn’t talk like that, that wasn’t who they were, so he swallowed again and said, “Come on, Daddy. I want to fuck gold.”

A shiver seemed to pass through Sherlock’s features, wiping them of any expression John could read, although he imagined—hoped—that Sherlock was thinking something similar to John’s thoughts. Then Sherlock adjusted his weight, leaning forward even more, and slid the massager deeper.

 _Fuck_ , John thought when it was all the way inside. _Oh, fuck_. Apparently the beauty of the toy being thicker at the tip than nearer to the handle was that the stretch had already passed. His hole felt loose, that raw and gaping sensation like he’d just been fucked, at the same time that his arse was still full. He arched slightly, relishing the weight of the toy as it shifted inside him. Still gripping the handle, Sherlock moved, helping it along until the tip skidded over John’s prostate just right. John’s cock jumped, thickening again, and his mouth opened around something between a swear and an incoherent shout.

“That’s it,” Sherlock said. His voice was low and hoarse; it made John think of gravel under his boot as he chased after Sherlock on some mad adventure. “Let Daddy hear you.”

Sherlock moved the toy again, making it rub back and forth over John’s prostate in a maddening little massage. One of John’s legs trembled and jerked, and without thinking he tried to wrap it around Sherlock’s waist, forgetting that it wasn’t Sherlock’s cock in him and that with the space between them it wouldn’t quite work. Sherlock caught his thigh before it fell back to the bed and gave it a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

“It’s all right,” Sherlock whispered.

He slid the toy out until John was crying out again as his hole stretched around the thickest part. When Sherlock pushed it back inside, John managed a shuddery “Daddy.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, sounding rapturous. “I’ve got you.”

He fucked John slowly, almost torturously so. John felt every centimetre of the toy, opening him wide and leaving him gaping, and every time the heavy tip brushed across his prostate, Sherlock lingered there for a moment, grinding against the gland until John’s cock, fully hard and aching, began to throb and dribble onto his belly.

It wasn’t quite a ‘milking,’ probably, but it was the closest they’d come—John closed his eyes, snatched up the idea, and ran with it. Sherlock milking his prostate every few days, making John spill a pool of come on his belly, murmuring about John’s health and John’s needs, telling John he was a good boy, promising that Daddy would take care of him…

The mattress shifted and shook, and John opened his eyes to see Sherlock bending over and lowering his head to John’s belly. He swiped his tongue across John’s skin, lapping up the precome, then brought his mouth to the head of John’s prick.

One gentle suckle, the tip of his tongue dipping into John’s slit and teasing his fraenulum, and suddenly John was moaning and arching and coming, just like that, shocking the hell out of himself. Probably Sherlock as well, although he barely missed a beat; he simply swallowed John’s cock and sucked him through it, letting John come in his hot, wet throat and making the most gorgeous fucking picture John had ever seen.

John had half a mind to apologise, but he knew from experience that if he did, Sherlock would take it to mean that John was disappointed and would become upset with himself for ‘ruining it.’ So John contented himself with gasping, muttering “Oh god” and “Fucking hell” as the aftershocks wracked him, his cock pulsing weakly in Sherlock’s mouth. He whimpering when Sherlock slipped the toy out.

Then, loose and wet and not quite satisfied, he wasted no time shoving Sherlock out of the way and rolling onto his stomach. He raised himself to his hands and knees—less likely for his prick to rub against anything and drive him out of his mind—and glanced over his shoulder.

Sherlock was frozen, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, a few of his curls stuck to his temple with sweat. He still gripped the gold massager in one hand, and his mouth and chin were wet, his lips swollen. His prick was as hard as John had ever seen it, flushed a red so deep it was nearly purple.

Sherlock’s gaze was glued exactly where John wanted it, so all he had to do was shuffle his knees farther apart and reach with one hand to grab an arse cheek and spread himself wide, letting Sherlock see how slick and loose he was. The toy went tumbling to the sheets, and Sherlock scrambled towards him, gripping John’s hips with lube-sticky hands.

John dropped his hand back to the bed, bracing himself, as Sherlock bent over him, kissing his spine and his shoulder blade, murmuring “Are you sure? You don’t—”

Laughing, John rocked his whole body, making Sherlock sway with him in a motion not entirely different from the one he must’ve been gagging for. Sherlock cut himself off with a deep, beautiful groan and sagged forwards, mouthing against the skin of John’s back as though actual words had abandoned him. John felt untouchable, invincible. He was the only one who could do this to Sherlock, the only one Sherlock had ever allowed to see him like this.

John sighed, filled with a pleasure far better, deeper, than any orgasm could give him. “Come on, then. I need it—” Sherlock pushed in, stretching John just as wide as the toy, filling him without leaving him loose and open, and John could only moan, “Daddy,” as Sherlock fucked him.

His prostate was still sensitive, tender from the toy, and every graze of Sherlock’s prick against it somehow managed to bully another little throb and dribble of fluid from John’s cock, accompanied by a vicious tremble in John’s limbs and a noise not unlike a sob from his throat.

It couldn’t go on much longer, unfortunately. John wouldn’t be able to take it. So he summoned his softest, neediest voice and said, “Come in me. Please, Daddy.” Within seconds, Sherlock was pounding into him, clutching him tightly, and coming in his arse with a quiet, broken sound that John couldn’t help but echo.

Gaping and satisfied, with come leaking out of his sore arsehole and down his thighs, John let Sherlock help him down from his hands and knees and then onto his back. Practically glowing with self-satisfaction, Sherlock kissed John’s neck, then his ear, then—when John lifted his head pointedly—his lips. John opened his mouth, licked Sherlock’s pouty bottom lip, and tasted chocolate.

He pulled back. “You dipped into the sweets already, didn’t you?”

Sherlock blinked. “Of course I did,” he said in a tone that suggested ‘Why on earth wouldn’t I?’

Why wouldn’t he, indeed, John supposed. After all, John’s first thought after opening Sherlock’s gift had been that he’d need a shower before they gave the prostate massager a go.

As though he knew what John was thinking, Sherlock reached for the toy at the end of the bed and scooted it closer. Most of the lube had dried now, leaving whitish smears on the gold.

The gold.

 _I’ve had 18K gold in my arse_ , John thought, followed swiftly by: _Well, it was only a matter of time, wasn’t it? All things considered, it’s probably more of a surprise it took this long._

“You like the steel better,” Sherlock said, setting the toy aside and sitting up.

“The what?”

“The steel anal plug I bought you last year. You like it better.” Sherlock reached for the duvet this time, which he tucked around John as though he honestly expected John was going to lie here covered in come and fall asleep. “Not surprising, really. The massager is only gold plated, whereas the steel plug is pure steel, which makes it heavier. You prefer the weight. Shame no one’s bothered to make a pure gold toy.”

John could see where this was going. “Sherlock,” he warned.

“Perhaps they’d be open to commissions…”

“ _Sherlock_.”

 

 


End file.
